"Then I may teach you all that you haven't learned," she said with a happy little laugh. "How fortunate that I should have been born a bookworm. Shall we begin with Greek?" He smiled. "No; let's start with English--and start low." "Then we'll do both; but where shall it be? Not at the Hall." "Hardly. There's a bench, though, down by the poplar spring that looks as if it were meant to be in school. Do you know the place? It's in my pasture by the meadow brook?" "I can find it, and I'll bring the books to-morrow at this hour. Will you come?" "To-morrow--and every day?" "Every day." For an instant he looked at her in perplexity. "I may as well tell you," he said at last, "that I'm one of the very biggest rascals on God's earth. I'm not worth all this, you know; that's honest." "And so are you," she called back gaily, as she turned from him and went rapidly along the little path. CHAPTER IX. Christopher Faces Himself When she had gone through the gate and across the little patch of trodden grass into the sunken road, Christopher took up the ropes and with a quick jerk of the buried ploughshare began his plodding walk over the turned-up sod. The furrow was short, but when he reached the end of it he paused from sheer exhaustion and stood wiping the heavy moisture from his brow. The scene through which he had just passed had left him quivering in every nerve, as if he had been engaged in some terrible struggle against physical odds. All at once he became aware that the afternoon was too oppressive for field work, and, unhitching the horses from the plough, he led them slowly back to the stable beyond the house. As he went, it seemed to him that he had grown middle-aged within the hour; his youth had departed as mysteriously as his strength. A little later, Tucker, who was sitting on the end of a big log at the woodpile, looked up in surprise from the anthill he was watching. "Quit work early, eh, Christopher?" "Yes; I've given out," replied Christopher, stopping beside him and picking up the axe which lay in a scattered pile of chips. "It's the spring weather, I reckon, but I'm not fit for a tougher job than chopping wood." "Well, I'd leave that off just now, if I were you." Raising the axe, Christopher swung it lightly over his shoulder; then, lowering it with a nerveless movement, he tossed it impatiently on the ground. "A queer thing happened just now, Uncle Tucker," he said, "a thing you'll hardly believe even when I tell you. I had a visit from Mrs. Wyndham, and she came to say--" he stammered and broke off abruptly. "Mrs. Wyndham?" repeated Tucker. "She's Bill Fletcher's granddaughter, isn't she?" "Maria Fletcher--you may have seen her when she lived here, five or six years ago." Tucker shook his head. "Bless your heart, my boy, I haven't seen a woman except Lucy and the girls for twenty-five years. But why did she come, I wonder?"